


Tops and Tails

by Magik3



Series: Kitty told me to name this series [8]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Breasts, F/F, Underwear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-17 08:17:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11847597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magik3/pseuds/Magik3
Summary: Kitty and Illyana have different taste/needs when it comes to undergarments, but this works in their favor. This will be a series of vignettes about bras (and lack thereof) and eventually whether or not Illyana's tail belongs in bed.





	1. The Training Bra

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittyViolet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyViolet/gifts).



> I don’t habitually write about bras—and didn’t even know that bralettes existed until KittyViolet told me. This piece is completely her fault. Anything that goes right in it, blame her. (Anything that goes wrong, you can still blame me, but you won’t if you know what’s good for you.)

  
On me, bras have two functions: 1) hold my boobs in place while I’m moving around so they don’t get annoying, or 2) do that lift and separate “hey, look boobs” thing so Kitty will put her hand up under my shirt. Or on top of it and then under it. Or on top of it, through it and then … you know. Kitty, as you can guess, has many bras. She has more kinds of bras than she has weapons. This is why she’s a good influence. Well, one of many reasons.  
  
Kitty wears her training bras with utter seriousness and does not quite understand how crazy this makes me. Good crazy. The kind where I feel like I’d chew through concrete to get to her.  
  
I’m not sure if this is because I really like breasts (true, but would require more field testing that I’m not willing to do), or because of how much I love Kitty, or because she pays so much attention to her breasts that I get swept up in it. Probably all three.  
  
I swear there are many wonderful other body parts on both of us. But she’s never patient enough to let me suck on her fingers as long as I want to. Half the time her ears are ticklish. And if I’m between her legs, where I love to be, there’s a moderate chance I’ll get everything just right and she’ll accidentally phase through the dining room into the wine cellar.  
  
The training bra is particularly teasing because it is over an area I can kiss for a long time without worrying about the wine cellar. And because its lines are so proper, the patterns playful and what’s under it, so enticing. Also I cannot properly describe how it is to kiss Kitty’s neck, up by her ears where she is all slender elegance, where the lines show the woman she’s growing up to be, to kiss down to her collarbones, where strength and grace and delicacy come together—and then to find these lines of cotton, very soft, made for a young girl and one who, certainly, does not know how to use a sword or rewire a mainframe or infiltrate secret facilities.  
  
Her training bras are not like my bras with their vicious underwires and the firmer straps. She has only this very soft cotton that doesn’t need to lift and hold as much as protect and, maybe, caress. I like to put my fingers over the material where it rests on her nipples and rub tiny arcs until I feel her nipple pressing up to meet me. Then I have to put my mouth there.  
  
Tonight we are sitting up in bed very late, with Kitty in my lap, her legs open around me so I feel the heat of her on my pubic bone. By the time we get to this position, we are both bare from the waist down. Tonight I’ve kept my shirt on, so Kitty has something to hold on to, to gather in her fists when I tease her. I have one arm around her back. In my lap, she’s raised up so my mouth is perfectly in reach of her neck and collarbones and of course the infuriating (to both of us in turn) training bra.  
  
I kiss alongside the straps of the bra while my fingers play over one breast, finding her nipple, making it hard, then reaching for the other. She’s rocking her hips, pressing against and down into me, but most of my focus is in my mouth. My lips and tongue are in many ways the most sensitive part of me and I love putting my mouth on Kitty.  
  
Tonight I’ve been wondering if we can keep the training bra on the whole time, but maybe make it look a little less innocent. My lips find one raised nipple through the fabric. The cotton feels thick on my tongue, almost wooly. I suck and it gets smooth with saliva, clings to Kitty’s skin when I pull a few inches away to look.  
  
This training bra has rows of black and white zigzags and diamonds. We left the shade up and the moonlight is strong so that, although the white looks light grey, the pattern is still clear. One of the zigzag lines has tiny hearts in the troughs of the lines. I move the fabric so a heart is over her tight nipple, a decorated, raised point in the middle of the black lines.  
  
Kitty has her hands clenched around my shoulders over my shirt. She’s making whispered sounds of pleading encouragement.  
  
My fingers stretch the bra’s fabric tight over her nipple and I stroke my tongue along the damp cotton. I love how it looks as the wetness of the fabric spreads to the edges of her areola and beyond. The playful zigzag and hearts become less pronounced where I’ve made the grey-white of the cloth almost transparent. I can see the darker circle around her nipple clearly now and I run my tongue around and over it. I am painting her breast with my tongue, claiming her by inches as I get her bra wetter, the fabric saturated with how much I need her.  
  
She’s panting and whispering my name and moving her hips, trying to find a harder surface to press against, but I’m not helping. I hold the wet fabric tight against her straining nipple and put my mouth on the other one, sucking and wetting.  
  
Kitty shoves one hand between her legs, far enough down that she’s also between mine. No fingers, no dextrous finesse, just her fist between us so that as she rubs against it, the tight ball of her hand rubs me.  
  
I usually come first. I’m easy. And I don’t fall through things, so other than concentrating on keeping my tail from manifesting and on not shouting with joy, I don’t have to worry about much. But this time, I hold back. I want to feel her come with my mouth. I keep my lips over her nipple, even as she moves faster and it’s hard to stay there. I suck lightly because she has to be beyond sensitive there now. My hand on her other breast rubs a thumb over the soaked fabric covering her.  
  
She groans and grabs my wrist, pulls my hand down and back up so I’m under the training bra. Wet cotton against my knuckles makes a rush of echoing wetness between my legs. How can this be so hot? The juxtaposition of a younger girl’s bra with Kitty’s strong, soft, nearly adult body, with the deep aching need so evident in her small breasts, in the violent thrusts she’s making against her hand, against me. The wet cotton is cold over my fingers, wet like an accident, wet as evidence that we cannot really control ourselves.  
  
I take my mouth away from her other breast and put fingers there, under the training bra, wanting to feel that side also cold and wet—and at the same time, between my finger and thumb, warm and hard and softer still than the cotton. I try to kiss Kitty, but it only lasts a moment because her hips are jerking, shoving down, hard, fast as she comes against her hand, comes in my lap. Her face pressed furiously against the side of my neck, whole body shaking, breasts claiming my hands as her chest arches forward.  
  
I keep one hand on her breast and push her hand out of the way with my other. I can only get fingers between us, the back of my hand resting against my hard, aching clit. But it’s enough to feel how wet she is, almost dripping down onto me. I barely enter her and she’s coming again. I’ve found her mouth, open and gasping, I’m trying to inhale her breathing, to match her as I come.  
  
I can’t keep our mouths aligned. I follow the line of cotton down to the cold wet circle over her breast. I’m trying to be silent, am not silent enough, translate my moans into movement, rubbing my face on her bra, on her breasts—as the spasms of pleasure go through me, the clenching, sluicing, shuddering joy. I will this into her breasts, her chest, her heart. She presses my head close to her as we shake against each other.  
  
We stay sitting up, pressed tight, trying to catch our breath for a long time. I’m haloed in her sweet apricot musk, the heat radiating between us.  
  
When we move apart, it’s only as far as we have to so we can lie down together, face to face. Her hands are roving across my back and shoulders, under my shirt now. There’s languid kissing and much grinning. I put a finger under the strap of her training bra, pull up just enough to tighten the still wet fabric over her breasts.  
  
“This one’s my favorite,” I tell her. “The zigzag hearts are very playful.”  
  
“I thought you liked the royal blue one with the pattern like static.”  
  
“Hm, I like that one too. Tomorrow night? How many of these do you have?”  
  
She nestles against my side, head on my shoulder. “Not enough. Clearly. I’ll have to go shopping.”


	2. The Sports Bra

Kitty knows what I look like with my shirt off, so mainly I throw on sports bras, don’t care about the monoboob thing and go about my life. This afternoon I had a workout after class, so I’ve been in the sports bra all day with much sweating, constricting annoyance.  
  
When I get back to our room, I yank off the soaked sports bra and throw it across to my bed. “I hate bras! Sometimes boobs are so stupid.”  
  
I haven’t thought this through, obviously, and worry that I’ve hurt Kitty’s feelings. She’s on her bed reading and has her eyebrows raised at me. Hopefully because I’m yelling or, better yet, because I’m topless. And hopefully not because I’ve made her feel self-conscious or awkward.  
  
“I didn’t mean, I mean, not yours,” I stammer. “Yours are …”  
  
She closes her book. “You don’t like yours?”  
  
“I like you liking mine. But sometimes they’re a real pain. I wish I could turn them off for a while and just have them when they’re useful.”  
  
“You could maybe use magic,” she suggests, which is a little funny considering all the times I've said "why don't we use magic" and she's nixed it.

I'm still standing between the door and the head of my bed, unsure if I should go to the dresser and get a clean shirt or if Kitty is kind of mad and me standing around with my shirt off is helping.

I explain, “There are so many spells woven into my body, I don’t know enough to make that change without possibly changing a whole lot of other stuff I don’t want to. Plus, you like them.”  
  
Her tongue touches her bottom lip and she grins at me. Not mad at me. A different intensity. I look at the clock to verify the stupid number of hours between now and when I can safely get into bed with her.  
  
She says, “You know, it doesn’t matter if our door doesn’t lock if we put something against it.”  
  
“But what?”  
  
All we have is her desk and its chair. The chair would be too small and the desk too conspicuous.  
  
She pushes off the bed, crosses the distance between us and shoves me against the back of our door. I’m mumbling appreciation against her lips and grabbing the doorknob to help hold myself up because her hands are already on my breasts.  
  
Her kissing is hard, thorough, needy—it leaves me dizzy. I get a hand around the back of her neck, fist my fingers in her hair. We should not be doing this now, almost dinner-time, and against the door where any sound could be heard in the hall. We’re usually so careful, but it’s been a shitty day and I’m sick of being careful. Her hands cup my breasts, fingers and thumb finding my tightening nipples.  
  
Fingers and thumb pinch together, just hard enough to send liquid fire through me. I lose my grip on the doorknob. My knees won’t hold. I slip down, slump half-way lying against the door, watching Kitty try to figure out how to fit both our bodies in the space between desk and door.  
  
A knock and Rahne’s voice, “You two okay in there? We’re getting dinner.”  
  
“One sec,” Kitty calls cheerfully. None of the burning in her eyes makes it into her voice. “We had a dresser accident but we’re good. Be down in a few.”  
  
Kitty holds her hand out to me. I want to suck on her fingers. I shake my head and point at her bed. She sits demurely, knees tucked under her, but her eyes are still dark and needy.  
  
“Five hours,” I whisper on my way to the dresser.  
  
“Four,” she responds.  
  
“Three and a half,” I say with a grin as I pull on a tank top and then a heavy sweatshirt because my nipples are still painfully hard and aching for her fingers again.  
  
When we get to the living room with the other New Mutants, Amara says, “Rahne said you had a dresser accident. Did she mean fashion?”  
  
“Nope, Kitty has fashion-related accidents. Mine tend to be with the furniture.”  
  
“Is the dresser okay?” Doug asks, smirking.  
  
“It’ll pull through,” Kitty tells him with her face set to serious but a light dancing in the depth of her eyes.  
  
I beg off dinner early, saying I have things I need to look up in the library (which is always true). I’m on the edge of growly again and I don’t want to talk to people.  
  
Kitty says, “I’ve got to get going too. I’m running some experiments I need to check on.”  
  
I manage only a bit of homework, simple copying, while I wait—being fairly sure I am Kitty’s experiments.  
  
There’s a spot in the back corner near Professor X’s office that’s the last place people sit, as if being near him makes it more likely that he’ll read your mind. First off, he isn’t usually in his office in the evenings and secondly, in my experience, he's less likely to read the minds of people near him because he assumes we aren't hiding anything new. So my spot is right outside his office, behind a bookshelf, in view from a corner of the window. This lets Kitty phase down from our room, go around the outside and come in through the wall if she sees that I’m alone.  
  
Which she does tonight, holding out her hand. I close my books, take her hand and let her phase us out through the wall. It’s dusk but not full dark. She keeps us phased so we’ll be hard to see, until we reached the trees on the east side of the mansion. East is the short bit of woods between building and road. Enough trees that you can hide in it, but not so thick that anyone would attack us that way or that Wolverine would use it for training.  
  
“Experiments?” I ask when we were far enough from the building, under the cover of the trees.  
  
“Pressure,” she says and I shiver. “And duration. Today was a little more than I usually employ and you seem to like that, so I thought … but it’s kind of wet out here. Not ideal conditions.”  
  
“One of us, who can phase, should’ve brought a blanket.”  
  
“Says the teleporter.”  
  
“Fine, but if I come back with a quilt embroidered with skulls, do not complain.”  
  
“Teleport to our room, not Limbo.”  
  
I almost argue that I have to go through Limbo anyway, but as I think about it, I realize how unlikely it is that there would be any good blankets to be had there. I’m going to have to talk to S’ym about that. I get our comforter and make it back not more than two minutes after I’ve left. I’ve been noticing that when I’m heading toward Kitty, my teleports seem to be more accurate than when I have to go somewhere I don’t want to.  
  
We fold the comforter in a mostly-dry spot sheltered by a fallen tree. Kitty pushes me down on my back, her on top, kissing for a long time. Her hand brushes up under my sweatshirt and tank top. I hadn’t put a bra back on after throwing my sports bra across the room.  
  
“You like me liking this?” she asks with a smirky grin as her fingers trace the outline of my breast, slip up over my nipple and then back to cradle the whole.  
  
“Oh yes.”  
  
“But do you like it?”  
  
I shrug. She’s watching me and she’ll wait until I say the things I don’t really want to say, but that are on my tongue to be said. “Sometimes it just feels spidery,” I admit.  
  
“This?” she asks, touching lightly.  
  
I nod, not quite looking at her. I don’t want to tell her that any way she touches me is bad, and it isn’t, it’s just not what I want. But I don’t know what I want.  
  
She rolls my nipple between thumb and forefinger for a moment before pressing in hard. Breath hisses in through my teeth. I grab the front of her shirt and pull her down so I can kiss her triumphant grin. We kiss until she pinches again, harder, and my back arches up. I clench one hand in the blanket, the other around her arm. The pressure goes on, making pain and amazement, tingling energy spreading to my jaw, my gut.  
  
When she pulls her hand away, out from under my shirt, my nipple is a hard, stinging point. She touches my open lips, brushes her fingers next to my very wide eyes.  
  
“Wow,” she breathes. “That works.”  
  
“Unhg,” I say, a mashup of “uh-huh” and “again,” neither of which I can work my lips and tongue well enough to say. I have about enough conscious awareness to pant and stare at her and think she’s the best person ever.  
  
I would never have guessed, since I don’t like pain in bed and can’t abide being hit (even playfully), that this kind of wonderful stinging-pressure-delight could be a thing.  
  
Kitty shifts more on top of me, her left hand sliding up my belly, across my ribs. I arch again, pressing the breast she hasn’t touched yet into her hand. She rubs her thumb across the already taut nipple, curls her fingers around the curve of my breast and begins a series of fast, hard moments of pressure.  
   
Her other hand slides between my legs, into and through my pants, touching me in rhythm with the jolts of pain-defined pleasure.  
  
“I think you get envious that I can come from just you playing with my breasts sometimes,” she whispers with her face close to my ear. She’s still too shy to say things like that looking at me.  
  
I nod. Grunt an affirmative.  
  
“Do you think this is close enough?” she asks, her whisper as much breath as sound. Her fingers pinch my nipple hard, from the sides but also pushing down against my breast, at the same time that she presses her fingers on and a little into my clit.  
  
I arch up and almost howl.  
  
Her face in the shadowed darkness under the trees has a feral intensity. She’s enjoying feeling her fierceness echoed by my body. I let go of the grip I have on her arm, widen my legs for her, rest my head on the blanket-covered ground and surrender to her fingers. She finds the pattern: the bites of pain that her fingers make as they play hard with my nipple synchronized to the stroking against my clit. A stream of fire runs from my breast, down between my legs.  
  
When I come, it is white-hot and sharp. I thrash against Kitty’s hands and swear in Russian with most of the words being variations on, “Fuck!” I lose track of where I am, and it doesn’t matter. There’s only Kitty and power rushing in and out of me.  
  
She flops onto the blanket next to me, rolls on her side and throws an arm and a leg over my body. I’m still trembling and this anchors me. My nipples hurt, but she puts her arm across them anyway and I press closer anyway.  
  
“You?” I ask.  
  
“In a bit. I just want to think about that for a while. I think, when you’re in a bad mood, that’s very …”  
  
“Right?” I offer.  
  
I feel her grinning. “I was going to say ‘fun.’”


	3. Braless

  
Although in the X-Men, Kitty is also still a student and this often makes hell in her schedule. This morning we’re both supposed to be at an all-student brunch, but she crawled into my bed only a few hours ago, back from an X-Men mission. She can run on a few hours sleep but she doesn’t like it.  
  
Can I find a way to wake her up happy?  
  
She’s asleep on her side, turned away from me. I was spooned up behind her, but I roll onto my back and pull off my shirt, drop it on the floor.  
  
She’s wearing my soft, beige nightshirt that buttons up the front. I got it for the wide, open collar that humorously resembles a lab coat. But the light beige made my skin look sickly, and it brings out the tan tones in Kitty’s, so the nightshirt mostly lives on her side of the closet.  
  
I touch her arm, guiding lightly, and she rolls onto her back without waking up. The nightshirt gaps open in the front; she didn’t bother to do the top buttons. I can imagine her stumbling in late, exhausted, sore from fighting—pulling this out of the closet and shrugging it on, doing the bottom four buttons while phasing into the far side of my bed and passing out before she got to the last two.  
  
I want to slide my hand into that open gap, but this would ruin the surprise I’m working on. I carefully undo the buttons and push the nightshirt wide, and then I have to pause and grin and grin down at her, mostly bare, in my bed.  
  
I would wake her up with my tongue between her legs, but then one or both of us would end up in the wine cellar. After falling through the dining room. And there will be people there soon, if not already, setting up the brunch.  
  
Kitty doesn’t like sleeping on her back or with her body stretched out. She tends to curl up. I don’t have to wait long before she rolls onto her side, facing me.  
  
I push the nightshirt open wide and slide carefully up to the front of her body. My breasts meet her breasts. I’m lying on one arm, but I put the other around her, snuggle us closer together. My face is turned down and tucked into the pillow and the curve of her neck.  
  
When we’re as close as we can be, I start to move, very gently, brushing my breasts against hers. The bare skin-on-skin is impossibly soft and electric. My last tendrils of drowsiness are gone. I’m not just awake. I’m very awake, uncomfortably burning inside. I feel like I’ve caught myself in my own trap, except it wasn’t supposed to be a trap.  
  
Kitty gives a whimpered moan and presses closer to me. I work to keep enough space that I can brush my nipples across hers again and again. She’s coming awake faster. An eyelash flutters on my cheek, a puff of her breath.  
  
“Oh … oh, Illyana, yes,” all whispered, very breathy and surprised until the last word, which has a demanding, still-hushed tone.  
  
I am rubbing my breasts on hers, both of our nipples hard, contrasted with all the soft breast, both of us panting. Cheeks together, close to the pillow. I pull the blanket over our heads, hoping this will keep us quieter. This encloses us with the light, fruity smell of Kitty's shampoo and the sweet smell of her arousal blending with my deeper scent. There are footsteps in the hall now and I like this—not the fear of getting caught, I don’t want to be caught, but the feeling that there are people going about their morning routines without knowing that a few feet away, on the other side of this door, I am going to come with my chest pressed against Kitty’s.  
  
She puts her hand between us, barely fitting, awkward shifting and then we’re wrestling together to stay as close as we can, to keep our chests pressing and rubbing. We’re fighting to stay quiet. With her cheek against mine, I hear all kinds of tiny sounds she’s making and I know she feels this low growl in me.

I push her hand out of the way and fit my thigh between her legs, one of her legs between mine. She's so wet, I wish there was space for my fingers. But I love this, feeling her slide over my skin. We thrash together as silently as we can, I’m coming and she is and we both are together. No point in counting, no discrete instances, no up and down only up and up, pause and up again, again.  
  
We’re still clutching each other, quietly catching our breath, when Dani knocks on our door and calls in to us, “Fifteen minutes to brunch. Are you up?”  
  
Kitty pulls her face away from mine, pushes the blanket off our heads and says, “Close enough.”  
  
“See you in fifteen,” Dani says and as she walks away, I think I hear her chuckling.  
  
“Brunch,” Kitty whispers it harshly, like a swear word. “I forgot. You … this is why you woke me up like this?”  
  
“I wanted you to wake up happy.”  
  
“Oh yeah, I did.”  
  
We are still face to face, body to body, very close. Kitty is rubbing her cheek against mine, her fingers trailing along my thigh. She touches my hip bones and says, “You know, if we had something narrower than my hand to fit in there, we’d be closer all the way down.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“What’s the diameter of your tail?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I was kind of looking at Kurt’s and it’s actually … well, interesting for sure.”  
  
“My tail is not interesting,” I say and realize as I say it what a complete lie that is. In Limbo there were many times where it had been highly interesting. It fit between my legs easily and if my hands were busy, it was dextrous enough that I could rub myself with it in ways I liked. It just doesn’t seem to fit here, in this life, with Kitty.  
  
I sigh. “Okay, maybe it is kind of interesting. But I don’t like the idea.”  
  
“Then we don’t have to do it. This, however,” she says and brushes my breasts with hers, “You can wake me up like this any time.”  



	4. The Camisole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Mutant Massacre of the Marauders, Kitty is stuck in a permanently phased state. Illyana figures out a way to cheer her up and help her practice being solid.

  
Kitty has her worst phasing accident protecting Rogue from the Marauder Harpoon. His metal spears are charged with his own bio-energy and designed to stun—but apparently when charged bio-energy infused with malicious intent hits Kitty’s probability field, the results are terrible.  
  
She comes back to the mansion like a ghost, transparent, unable to talk. _So panic later_ , I tell myself. She nods when I ask if I can take her to Limbo, but we don’t stay long. She’s drifting further away. No magic I have can unphase her and I won’t let her dissolve in Limbo.  
  
They make a containment pod for her. At least it’ll keep her more or less in the same place while they work on the problem. And I have to go back to saving people. I have to because if I stay near her, I’ll fall apart.  
  
She’s already gone to Muir Island when the New Mutants have free time again. If anyone can figure this out, it’s Dr. MacTaggert. The same Dr. MacTaggert who is pretty furious at me for teleporting her naked out of her shower when the Marauder attacks started. I didn’t think that one through. Just it was an emergency and Lockheed was freaking out and if he freaks out, I know Kitty’s in danger. And where she was, Piotr was too. I can’t lose them.  
  
But I shouldn’t have taken Dr. MacTaggert naked to Limbo. That’s pretty obvious in retrospect.  
  
I teleport outside the buildings and walk up to the front door. An assistant I don’t know answers, but apparently she knows me because she hits an intercom on the wall and says, “Moira, Illyana’s here.”  
  
“Send her over.” The words do not sound happy or friendly or optimistic. The first two I deserve. The last … I want to feel that I deserve optimism. I might not.  
  
The assistant walks me to an outer room of the medical lab complex where Dr. MacTaggert is staring at pages of numbers.  
  
“I am sorry,” I tell her.  
  
“Me too,” she says, but we’re talking about different things. Then about the same thing: “Next time, give me two minutes, okay?”  
  
“I will.”  
  
“And you were right to come get me. You saved people.”  
  
“Kitty?” I ask, holding my breath.  
  
“I don’t have any good news yet. She’s contained but not stabilized. We’re working on it as fast as we can. Do you want to go see her?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
She opens the door to the inner rooms. There’s a long infirmary stretching down one side and on the other a similarly large room with much more machinery. Kitty is in a bed enclosed with something like glass that is probably much stronger and much more magical (though they won’t call it magic). There’s enough room for her to stand next to the bed or sit in bed, which she’s now doing.  
  
They haven’t worried about how to get her food or if she’ll have to use the bathroom. She won’t. She’s not physical anymore. She can’t eat or drink or turn the pages of a book if they’d given her one. There is a television across from her bed, outside the glass. It’s tuned to a classic movie fest, volume low. She can't hear it anyway.  
  
I put my hands on the glass and she mirrors the gesture, press my forehead to the cold surface. She moves one hand, puts a finger by the glass near my face like a question. I’m crying now, first time since the Marauder attack started. I nod a little to say: _yes, I’m crying for you/over you/near you/maybe even with you._  
  
She must be so scared in there. I want to teleport in, but I don’t know if that will mess with the machinery. Instead, I sit with her until I fall asleep with my cheek against the glass, wake up a few minutes later as I’m tipping toward the floor. If Dr. MacTaggert finds me like this, she’ll make me go sleep in a regular bed, by myself.  
  
I sneak into the hall. It’s very late and I’m full of sadness and gratitude that I haven’t been kicked out yet. In the morning, I’ll have to go back to the mansion and see if anyone needs me. But I have tonight and hopefully tomorrow night and maybe not too long from now, a night when I can hold Kitty again.  
  
I find a bathroom and wash up a little. Then the storage room with extra blankets and pillows for the infirmary. I take two blankets and a pillow back to Kitty’s bed, fold one blanket on the floor beside the glass wall and lie down. Kitty drifts down to the floor next to me. She curls up like she does in bed. I put one hand on the glass and doze restlessly.  
  
#  
  
A few days later, Dr. MacTaggert says that my presence isn’t making things worse and might be helping.  
  
We’re not sure how well Kitty can hear us. I don’t understand everything the medical people are saying about ear drums, membranes, eye lenses, how sense perceptions work. But the long and short of it seems to be that she loses her hearing long before she loses her vision. Something about sound waves moving in air but photons and receptors having a different medium.  
  
I hate all these things.  
  
I want to hunt down Harpoon and drive his energy stakes so far up his body that they come out the top of his head.  
  
But that doesn’t help Kitty. Or does it?  
  
Limbo. Scrying discs. S’ym and the other demons helping. We find him at a nightclub of all places, celebrating. I change clothes in Limbo, conjure something fit for a nightclub. Using the scrying discs, I find a back hallway and teleport in. No worries about being underage. Stay in the back, dark, until he goes for the bathroom.  
  
I shove into the men’s room ignoring shouts and kick him into the wall. A hoof to the solar plexus stuns and hurts. My tail around his throat, full Darkchilde in his face. “We are going to your place,” I tell him. “And you’re going to give me a harpoon to take with me. If you try anything at all, I will teleport you to a hellscape full of demons and leave you. Understand?”  
  
He seems to. Also he has peed on himself.  
  
His apartment is a mess, but the quiver of spears hangs neatly on the wall. He lunges for them, but my tail grabs his ankle and sends him sprawling. I put the soulsword through his chest, not solid enough to kill him, but painful and shocking to his energy system.  
  
I step over him and grab a spear.  
  
“Imbue it with your bio-energy,” I tell him.  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
I ram the spear through his shoulder into the floor. Energized or not, it’s a very strong metal. The smell of blood rises. I lick my fangs.  
  
“There is no please,” I tell him. “Every spear you don’t imbue goes into your body.” I draw another one and hold it over him.  
  
“Fine,” he spits and holds out his hand. Of course as soon as he has hold of the spear, he tries to throw it at me. I deflect with my sword, pick it up in my gauntleted hand and thrust it into his upper thigh, the meaty part, away from major blood vessels.  
  
He jerks, twisted around the pinned point of his shoulder, groaning from the pain.  
  
I hold another one toward him. “This one, if you don’t imbue, I will put it in your dick.”  
  
“What the hell?” he spits.  
  
“You hurt my friend. I need her to be well again. Do this and I won’t even kill you. Nor will I feed you to my demons. I don’t think you know how much I want to watch them take you apart right now.”  
  
I put the point of the spear lightly against his groin. He reaches for it and I wrap my tail around his wrist so he can only move slowly.  
  
“You swear it?” he asks. “Swear on whatever the fuck you swear on that you’re gone after this and no demons.”  
  
“I swear I will go, no demons, no killing you this time.”  
  
He touches his fingers to the spear and it crackles with golden energy. I waste no time or words on him, just teleport to Muir Island and give the spear to Dr. MacTaggert hoping this will help.  
  
After that, numb, I sit in the supply closet for a long time in the cool darkness.  Dr. MacTaggert comes in looking for something and sees me. She wraps a blanket around my shoulders.  
  
“Did you kill him?” she asks and her voice is surprisingly reasonable.  
  
I shake my head.  
  
“Are you upset because you didn’t or because you almost did?”  
  
I can’t answer that. It’s not even the right question. _What do I deserve? What am I owed, if anything? What makes a person into a person?_  
  
She goes away after a while and comes back with a cup of soup. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner,” she says, puts the soup down, kisses the top of my head and leaves again.  
  
I eat soup and feel like crying but the tears won’t come. Darkchilde does not cry and she’s still too close under the surface of my skin. Instead I go back to the mansion and shower for a long time, trying to scrub the smell of human blood out of my memory.  
  
#  
  
Dr. MacTaggert  comes up with the idea—genius or madness, I can’t tell—to give the spear to Longshot. It is exactly a longshot so of course, it helps. It doesn’t turn Kitty solid, but her dissipation stops. Within a day, she begins to hear again, can talk quietly because her larynx, lips, tongue aren’t completely solid, but can start to move the phased air in her body and that phased air is now very slightly solid enough to transmit vibrations to the non-phased air outside of her body.  
  
A few more weeks pass and Kitty can walk around outside of the containment field sometimes. When she gets tired, she goes back to it so she doesn’t have to concentrate. But at least she can become semi-solid when she concentrates.  
  
Dr. MacTaggert has given me a temporary room at the institute because I’m there so much. It’s also Kitty’s room if she wants it. Showing it to us, the doctor says, “I’m sorry the room is so small for the two of you, but it’s all we have.” She says nothing about there being only a single bed in it. Not a very big bed.  
  
“I guess she figured it out,” Kitty says when we’re alone in the room.  
  
“I’m here every night that I can be, falling asleep with my face on the glass of the containment chamber, not that hard to figure out.”  
  
“It always surprises me the people who don’t figure it out.”  
  
“We’re teenaged girls, what can we possibly get up to?” I’m smirking and Kitty grins back at me.  
  
I sit on the bed crosslegged. Almost a meditation pose, arms an open circle with my hands resting on my knees so Kitty can sit in the circle of my arms even if I can’t hold her.  
  
“I’m still tired all the time,” she says.  
  
“I brought you something. I thought you might need a little optimism.”  
  
“What? I can’t really use anything right now.”  
  
“You will either laugh or … we’ll see.”  
  
I get up and cross to the backpack I’ve been carrying, careful not to move through Kitty. Neither of us likes being reminded that we can’t touch. The backpack has my pajamas and toiletries, but also a small plastic bag from a rather nice store. I’d seen Kitty looking at something like this in a magazine when I was sitting next to the containment field and she was gesturing for me to turn pages. She’d stayed on two pages for a long time. The article wasn’t that interesting so I realized it was the ads. One of the ads.  
  
I bring out the bag and open it very slowly. She’s leaning over and somewhat through my shoulder. I brush my fingers through her cheek. I want to cry, but I don’t. Later, alone.  
  
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, the bag in my lap. As I pull out the contents I spread it open on my lap: mesh and lace. I hold the camisole up by its delicate straps.  
  
“Oh that’s beautiful.”  
  
“It will look perfect on you, I think. These lacy bits here especially, which are apparently designed to drive people like me out of our minds.”  
  
I go to the closet and get a hanger. Kitty glides over and puts her fingers through the lace as I’m hanging it on the hook on the inside of the closet door. Putting it where she’ll have to see it if the door is open, but it can be hidden quickly. Of course she’d have to be able to close the closet door to do that. But I’ll close it before I teleport back.  
  
#  
  
I don’t make it back to Muir Island for a few days. School and training had me exhausted enough that I wasn’t sure I could teleport straight. (Plus a fit of crying in the woods where no one could hear, or see, or know.) Kitty left me a message to come over Saturday night if I could, but not during the day because they’d just be running tests on her in the lab.  
  
We had dinner with Dr. MacTaggert and Banshee, then watched part of a movie with them, got bored, left. Movie-watching kind of sucked when I couldn’t touch Kitty.  
  
Back in our small room, I flop onto the bed, still recovering from the week. “What do you want to do?”  
  
“Look,” she says. I roll over. She’s unbuttoning her shirt. Easy enough since it’s phased with her. But under it, the mostly sheer, suggestively lacy camisole top.  
  
“Hey you got it on. Wow, that’s …” I’m up and moving and then, unfortunately, putting my fingers through her body. “Dammit.”  
  
She brushes her immaterial cheek against mine. Like a kiss I can’t feel. I put my fingers against my mouth and remember what kissing her feels like.  
  
Kitty is explaining, “My control comes and goes, sometimes it’s not there at all, and then other times I can be mostly solid for minutes. I had a bit this afternoon, almost four minutes, so I washed up quickly and changed and put this on.”  
  
“But I still can’t touch you,” I say. That sounds so whiny to my ears. And I don’t want her feeling bad about any of this. “But … you know what I can touch …”  
  
I crawl back onto the bed, untucking my shirt.  
  
“Oh!”  
  
“Do you want to?” I ask.  
  
Kitty undoes her pants and pushes them down, steps out of them on her way to the bed. The panties that go with the camisole look very delicate. Normally if we were alone in a room with a lock on the door, I’d have my mouth there in an instant. But instead I resolutely unbutton my jeans, kick them off, get out of my shirt and bra, lie back on a pile of pillows.  
  
Kitty makes happy sounds, but her fingers go through my breasts without leaving even a trail of tingling electrical disruption.  
  
“Rats,” she says and sits back on her heels.  
  
I open my legs around her, so she’s not overlapping them, put on hand on my breast and pinch the nipple, feeling only moderately silly. “Like this?” I ask.  
  
“That’s so unfair when I can’t touch you!”  
  
“Have to keep practicing,” I say.  
  
“I have been!” She pouts, opens her legs just enough to rub her hand between them. “I want to touch you so bad.”  
  
“Me too.” I slip fingers down, already very wet.  
  
She’s rubbing herself through the panties, sitting between my legs, staring at me, at my fingers. I open my legs a little wider, bend my knees up, open my lower lips with one hand so she can see very clearly as I slip a finger inside.  
  
Both hands to her breasts, she makes her nipples very hard under the camisole. I’m watching, moaning, fucking myself as slowly as I can stand, still holding everything open to her.  
  
“At least you’re here with me,” I say. “At least we can do this together.”  
  
“I kind of like this,” she says, eyes cast down and to one side, a hint of red in her cheeks. “I like watching you.”  
  
“You do?”  
  
“Or maybe not only that but also watching what’s happening with you while you’re watching me.”  
  
“This?” I ask, showing her my wet fingers before I slide them back into me.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. The need is so heavy. I’m trying to stay slow, shifting so I have four fingers inside myself. That feels good, aside from my wrist starting to ache, but seeing Kitty watch is unbelievably intense. I don’t usually get to see her face that hungry. Getting how much she wants me.  
  
Watching her hand moving on herself, speeding up and slowing down in response to me. So much pressure between my legs, through my pelvis, into my belly, so much need and how badly I want to reach out for her. I close my eyes, trying to concentrate and failing.  
  
The bed shifts. Kitty gasps. I open my eyes knowing what I’ll see because I can feel it. My tail is out, tucked from the small of my back between my buttocks, between my legs, lashing in the space of Kitty, trying to grab onto her.  
  
“Fuck."  
  
“Please," she says, quickly, before I can force my tail to disappear again. "I like how you look like every part of you is reaching for me.”  
  
“It is,” I growl.  
  
“Please don’t stop reaching for me.”  
  
“I won’t. I want you here,” I move my fingers hard inside myself, deep. “Here.”  
  
When I make myself come, I let my tail thrash as it does when I don’t try to control it. It lashes back and forth between my legs and then twitches, quivering down its length. Kitty watches, eyes very wide, mouth open. Knees still bent, sitting back on her heels, she spreads her legs further so it’s between them, so it would be touching her.  
  
Her ghostly body is rubbing against my tail, rubbing also against her hand, which is what she can feel, but it looks like she’s making herself come against my tail. I can imagine how that feels, her wetness, the solid edges of her pubic bone under soft skin, the strength of her legs. Her head tipped back, mouth open, nipples straining against the lace, bottom edge of the camisole riding up and pushed up further where her hand is tucked into her panties. I almost feel the wet cotton rubbing against the sensitive underside of my tail.  
  
I almost want this.  
  
I do want it. Only I also wish I didn’t.  
  
She falls forward, catches herself with her hands against the bed because her subconscious has at least caught on to not phase through this bed. If only I rated the same as that inanimate object. Just to have her hands brace against me for a minute, to feel the very slight weight of her when she's half-phased. I reach out by reflex and my hand goes through her body.

I can’t kiss her. It’s too much. Crying, I roll to the side, grab a pillow, bury my face in it. I have to hold onto something. For a moment I feel Kitty, half solid behind me. Her arms circling me.  
  
“Thank you for letting me see,” she whispered.  
  
I shake my head but I’m just arguing with what’s true.


	5. The Sundress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Muir Island, as Kitty's recovering from her phasing accident, things get very wet.

  
Muir Island did not make it into my top 100 sunbathing spots, but that summer with Kitty more in control of her phasing power again, we decided to give it shot. In mid-July on the part of the island sheltered from the wind, the temperatures in the sun could reach the low 80s. I didn’t bother putting on a bathing suit. No one was going in the frigid water. And I still didn’t have most of my clothes there. So loose, gray pants and a t-shirt. Kitty wore a new sundress she’d ordered: a soft blue jersey material that fell to mid-thigh.  
  
We read and talked and kissed for a while. Heavenly to be able to kiss her again. After we'd eaten the picnic lunch we’d packed, Kitty put her arm over her eyes and dozed while I watched the waves.  
  
I realize I’d rather be watching Kitty. She’s sleeping, lips parted, eyes covered, the sundress moving slightly with the hint of breeze, just fluttering around her thighs. Although she was solid more of the time now, or because of it, she was tired a lot. Napped most days. And she liked being woken up with sex and sent to sleep with it when we could manage. Or maybe that latter one was me.  
  
The sundress is toying with me. It keeps shifting its line at her mid-thigh. It has little rolled up sleeves, like it's trying to look tough, but also an empire waist that emphasizes the small rise of Kitty’s breasts and then the long, slender slope down to where I could see her thighs.  
  
I want to see more there. Need to, with a pang sharper than hunger. The thin fabric outlines the outside of her right thigh because the wind is coming from that direction, but it could be outlining everything.  
  
(Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell if I’m being a jerk or not. This idea might not be a good one. But if it isn't, Kitty will tell me and be mad at me for two minutes and then hopefully kiss me.)  
  
I take the top off my canteen and hold it very carefully over Kitty’s lower belly, a few inches up, tipping it by increments until a few drops of water fall onto the sundress and sink into the material, turning it darker and semi-transparent.  
  
Now I can see the line of her panties where the sundress clings to her skin. I move down to about where I think her clit must be. I spill a few more drops, watch the material darken and cling to her. She moans in her sleep.  
  
I make a tiny stream of water run down from the mouth of the canteen to the material between her legs. The canteen has been in the sun, its water now warmer than my skin. I imagine the feeling of that warm wetness going through the thin fabric of her sundress and the thinner fabric of her panties, spread out, soaking down across her clit, between her lips. Like my tongue, but softer, touching everywhere.  
  
Another moan from her as the stream continues. I circle the canteen and plaster the dress to the inside of her thighs. I begin to see the shape of her under the cloth: the place where smooth belly and curving thighs came together, the texture of her pubic hair, a darkness under the semi-transparent cloth.  
  
The view gets better as she shifts and opens her legs wider. Is she half-awake or fully awake and pretending to be asleep? Probably the latter, but I won’t tell. I bring the stream between her legs, where the rises in the cloth show her outer lips and the space between them. Her lips already look slightly swollen with need.  
  
Pausing, sitting back, I admire the large wet spot that stretches from the lower edge of her belly to the bottom of the dress at mid-thigh. It wouldn’t look half so wicked without the innocence of the sundress and Kitty’s wind-tussled curls, without the book beside her weighing down the edge of her flouncy sun hat.  
  
I can’t see her clit, but I know it has to be straining up under that wet cloth. Mine is so hard now I could come rubbing against anything. But I won’t. Not yet. I bend down and blow across the dress, to make the wet spot colder in the middle, over the most sensitive parts of her. Then I tip the canteen down for a splash of warm water.  
  
She arches and reaches for me, opening her eyes. I catch one of her hands. Canteen in the other, I manage to press one finger to my lips.  
  
“Shhh, Kitty’s sleeping. She needs her rest to stay solid,” I tell her.  
  
She raises her eyebrows at me.  
  
I crawl over to her sun hat and grin down at her, asking, “We don’t want to wake her up, do we?”  
  
She shakes her head. I put the hat over her forehead, brim covering her eyes. Her body relaxes back against the sand … until I release another small splash of water over her clit. She arches and settles and tries to be still, hands curling into the sand on either side of her beach towel.  
  
I kneel over her legs, one of mine between hers, down far enough to put my mouth over the center of that very wet fabric. I fill my mouth with warm water, lean down and push a thin stream through my lips onto her.  
  
Using my mouth, I can control the water better, keep this thin pressure of hot, spreading wetness on her. There is a point where, as Kitty gets turned on and then really turned on, she gets louder and then abruptly, much quieter. No more moans now, only small, helpless noises and the sound of her breathing very fast.  
  
I let myself nuzzle at the wet fabric, inhale her smell and the salt air. Then another mouthful of water, my lips very close to her, a miniature waterfall from my mouth over her clit, her lips. With my free hand, I go under the sundress and find her panties, soaked through twice: once from the water and once from her, a thicker liquid. I slide one finger under the crotch of her panties and felt the heavy wetness on the cotton and more of it between her lips, coating my finger.  
  
“Please, please,” she’s whispering amid the little frustrated sounds.  
  
“I don’t know if you’re wet enough. Let’s see.”  
  
I slide my finger between her lips and she’s so wet. But I have a plan. I’m teasing; I can’t give in to this painful wanting to sink into the hot, wetness of her. I push the crotch of her panties to one side and gently hold her lips apart as I stream more water onto her from my mouth. As it hits the surface of the sundress, some soaks in and runs over the back of my hand, but a little stream trickles right over her inner lips.  
  
I consider pushing the dress up, but my hand tucking under its hem, the way the wet material gathered over my forearm, looks so wicked that I have to leave it. Plus it clings to me, cool and wet, and although I know it’s water from the canteen, it feels like it could’ve been from Kitty, like she’d already come for me, on me.  
  
The back of the dress has to be soaked too. And the towel. And the sand, spreading out in a ring from underneath her. I can see the wet edge widening on the towel and wonder when the wet sand would be wider still. She’s lying in wet. Did it feel like this dress on my arm? Like one or both of us has come hard and wet and often. I want it to. Want her to feel it as a sign of how much I want her. Wet echoing wet, I’m soaking through my underpants.  
  
I slide one finger gently into her. She’d been phased so long that we haven't’t done this in a while and she’s tighter than I expected. I pour a stream of water over her clit and the opening below, over my finger—and feel her open more. I move slowly in and out, let her relax, bring my second finger up and let another stream of water wash over her as I enter again.  
  
The sound of the waves, late afternoon sun. The canteen almost empty. I put my cheek on her belly and move my fingers in and out, lazy, dreamlike. Her hips make tiny rocking motions to greet me.  
  
Drowsily, she says, “Ilya, I don’t think you’re wet enough.”  
  
“I’m dripping for you right now.”  
  
“Mmhm, but still, look at you.”  
  
I sit back on my heels, draw my fingers out gently. She’s moved the sun hat away and shades her eyes with one hand. The bottom half of her dress and the towel are drenched. My t-shirt has a wet ring at the top from where it touched the dress when I rested my cheek on her, but the rest of my clothing, soaked underpants not included, is dry.  
  
“I want to get you wet too,” she says, sitting up.  
  
She pushes my shoulders very lightly, playfully, until I roll onto my back on my towel. Then, pulling the dress up just to her hips, puts one leg over me and sits across my pelvis.  
  
Water seeps into my pants from her soaked dress and panties. I feel it at the edges first, the creases of my thighs. Warm from the sun and where it had touched Kitty’s skin. It moves inward, infuriating small trickles, and meets the wet between my legs.  
  
I grab her thighs, wet edge of dress touching my fingers, my hips bucking up toward her. She rubs herself hard against my pubic bone.  
  
She’d brought her canteen from beside her towel and unscrews the top.  
  
“Do what you were doing,” she says.  
  
“You want me to fuck you?”  
  
“Yes please,” all prim but with a slight smirk, and then, leaning closer, meeting my eyes, blushing but making herself be bold, she says, “I want you to fuck me.”  
  
When I say “fuck,” it’s just pragmatic. When Kitty says it, there’s a very deliberate “I’m being naughty” tone with layers of embarrassed and “I shouldn’t” and “I want to” and good girl rebelling. Some part of me, where the wet hasn’t yet reached, melts for her.  
  
I push my hand between us, fumble in all the wet cloth, find my way around her panties again, bring my first two fingers into her. At this angle, I can’t be very deep. She rubs against my hand. She has to be so close. I am.  
  
Kitty puts the mouth of the canteen against her lower belly. She rocks against me and, as she starts to come—mouth open, eyes full of surprised delight—tips the canteen. A rush of hot wetness spills over me.  
  
Roaring, I sit up, fucking her harder but still gentle, careful. My other arm wraps around her waist. Sun-white pleasure, need, release, joy, possession, connection all flare inside my body. Trapped between our bodies, the canteen stays tipped, spilling and releasing its contents over us in waves as we move. Kitty’s hands are in my hair, holding my face to the side of her neck while the delicate muscles inside her flutter and contract and force another, hotter liquid over my hand.  
  
I push the empty canteen aside and press my body to hers, feeling every detail through the thin wet dress, feeling her hips moving, muscles still working, caressing and wetting my fingers again.  
  
I feel like all this is from us. Like all the wet bunched between my legs in my underpants and pants was mine and Kitty’s. Like she’s coming all over me and I on myself and on her and this joins us.  
  
When we’re done coming and holding each other so close, I lean back just enough to look. Kitty’s dress is soaked from the high waistline down—but incongruously, pristinely dry over her breasts. Like they’re denying all involvement (though they don’t, of course, because her nipples are visibly hard even under the dry fabric). My shirt is wet in a long oval from neckline down across my belly, widening into the drenched darkness of my pants.  
  
Just looking at that, I want to come again or maybe still am to some degree as lingering spasms send fresh bursts of wet into my underpants. Kitty, reading my look, kisses me, inviting me into the wet of her mouth, rocking against me and helping this last wave of ecstasy to slowly rise and crest.  
  
I catch my breath with my cheek against her shoulder. Her fingers trace down the back of my neck, across the muscles of my back. Memorizing me again after being phased for so long.  
  
“We’re getting the rest of your dress wet,” I say, feeling her breasts pressing against the wet of my t-shirt.  
  
“Should I take it off to dry?” she asks and doesn’t want for an answer.  
  
Standing up, she pulls her panties off and out from under her dress. She’s going to hang them on the branch of a nearby bush, but I hold out my hand. Getting very red, she drops the wet mass of cloth into my palm.  
  
I spread her panties out on my thigh. Delicate white cotton turned translucent with water, the crotch heavy with thick, opaque liquid. I run my fingers through the slipperiness.  
  
“Maybe wet enough,” I say but my grin betrays the casual tone.  
  
She cocks her head, makes a slightly wider stance with her feet: determined Kitty. She sticks out her hand and says, “Yours.”  
  
I fall sideways into the sand getting out of my pants because she’s so cute when she’s determined and asking for things. Get my underpants off and hold them up, inside out, so she can see how much I had come in them, how much my body responded to her.  
  
“Oh,” she says and kisses me hard enough that we both tip back into the sand.  
  
We don’t stop until the sun is hitting the tops of the hills and the beach gets cold. By then some of our clothing has dried, though other parts of us are still very wet.  
  
On the walk back, holding my hand, smirking, Kitty says, “You know, I think you just redefined ‘wet dream’.”


End file.
